The Red Line
by The Never Minder
Summary: Bullets can't raise the dead, but maybe a hole in the Monarch's skull will be enough make up for the one he just left in Hank's family.


"What do you think you're doing?" Brock asked, speaking as calmly as he could.

To his right, the Monarch cowered on the grass, useless on a broken leg. To Brock's left, Hank stood, trembling but determined; pointing the gun he'd stolen from his father's bedroom. Around them, Guild agents prowled in a circle, waiting for something to snap the stalemate, and outside this ring Doc Venture waited, biting his nails and looking for something to hide behind.

"He's gotta pay!" the teen shouted suddenly, jerking the gun toward the Monarch to accentuate the point. The Monarch flinched but didn't speak, still gritting his teeth in agony from his snapped fibula, though his eyes flickered from Brock to Hank, a greasy expression of pleading on his face. Somewhere, probably, the ridiculously deep voice of his lover was rallying henchmen to prepare the Cocoon for a rescue, but they weren't _here_ and they couldn't help.

"You're not thinking!" Brock snapped, and then bit down on his tongue to stop himself from continuing. He couldn't afford to spook Hank, not now. Struggling to keep his temper in check, he tried again. "Just put that down and chill out."

"Double _dammit_, Brock, just shut up and stop distracting me so I can get a clear shot!"

Okay. This was a good sign. Hank hadn't shot the Monarch yet, despite everything the man had done, which meant that Brock had a strong chance of getting through to him. "_Give me the gun_, Hank. Don't kill this guy." The words hanging in the air, _that's my job_, went unspoken. He held out one hand for the weapon, putting on the sternest face in his arsenal.

Unfortunately, that wasn't going to cut it. Not today. "I've seen you kill like, a hundred guys, don't tell me I can't have this one!" Hank shouted, brandishing the gun carelessly and making Brock stiffen despite himself. "It's nothing worse than what you've done before!"

"It _is_ worse because it's _you_!" snarled Brock. This was Hank. Brock had changed the kid's diapers, he'd combed his hair for lice and endured his inane questions about music and sports and women and god only knew how much other crap. He couldn't watch him become a killer. Not even the Monarch's killer. "You don't want to be like me, Hank."

"That's all I _ever_ wanted to be!" Hank screamed, his face reddening from frustration and anguish.

The confession caught secret agent, black-ops, Swedish murder machine Brock Samson so off-guard that for a single moment he couldn't speak. But then Hank's finger tightened almost imperceptibly on the trigger and Brock forced himself back into the real world. "HANK! I'M _ORDERING_ YOU TO PUT THAT THING DOWN NOW!"

Hank bit his lip, eyes roaming from Brock to the Monarch and darting around the swarming circle of uniformed men waiting like cats for the stalemate to break. "What do I _do_?" he cried out, desperate. "I can't just—I can't just—!"

Brock exhaled, long and slow. He almost had him. Almost. "Just think for a second, alright, buddy? Think about what you're trying to do. Think about what'll happen if you pull that trigger. Think about what'll happen to your family. What'll happen to _you_." He withdrew the hand that had been outstretched for the gun, and, against all instinct, placed both arms calmly at his sides. This would work. This had to work, because Brock couldn't lose both of them. He waited, holding his breath.

For a moment there was silence. No one moved: the operatives halted their rotation, Doc clenched his hands silently, and the Monarch's labored breathing was the only sound other than the wind in the grass. And then, slowly, agonizingly, Hank raised the hand that held the gun, an expression of utter loathing on his face—and dropped it.

"Batman never killed anyone," he said, face crumpling. Almost before he'd ended the sentence Brock was at his side, seizing firearm from the grass and tossing it away before putting a muscled arm around the boy's shoulder. Guild operatives closed in, seizing the Monarch and dragging him unceremoniously toward the edge of the compound. Brock noticed this, filed it away, but didn't look away from his charge.

"I knew you'd do the right thing," Brock muttered, but Hank made no reply except to bury his face into his torso. Haltingly, tentatively, Doc came forward and placed a hand on his son's shoulder, and the Venture family finally took a moment to simply grieve.


End file.
